


War is Peace

by Opal_of_the_Sea



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Re-written ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opal_of_the_Sea/pseuds/Opal_of_the_Sea
Summary: Follow Winston through a slightly different ending of the book.I had to write this for school and then realized hey! I've written my first fanfic lol.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	War is Peace

“A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the cafe. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their ears.   
The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside.” (Orwell)

Winston began cheering along. He downed the last of his gin with a pucker and walked out of the Chestnut Tree Café, joining the people outside. The war had been won! Winston felt great pride for his nation. He walked through his celebrating comrades for blocks until the cheering gently gave way to the regular bustle of the street. 

He wasn’t sure where he was walking. Perhaps he was taking a victory lap. A rather unsteady victory lap, what with all the Victory Gin in his system. 

Winston was brought out of his drunken stupor by a loud explosion east of him. Such rocket bombs were to be expected. He felt disgust rise up in him as he noticed he’d wandered into the prole district. This whole place smelled of sewage. They were living in their filth with no gratitude towards big brother, he hated looking at them.

But his attention was caught by a small boy tugging on his mother’s sleeve. The boy’s eyes were wide and welling up with tears. His eyes were the brightest thing in these hazy, mud-coloured slums. 

“Mammy, what’s that noise?” whimpered the boy. Winston and the boy’s mother noted the noise simultaneously. There was a low droning coming from the sky.   
“Get inside, my boy,” the woman said to her son urgently, her eyes fastened on the horizon. Winston followed her gaze and saw a swarm of helicopters. A prole nearby had noticed too, and was shouting, “‘Copters! ‘Copters!” Someone else began wailing. 

Winston turned around and retraced his steps out of the prole district. People were scurrying around frantically, slamming and locking doors, and clinging to lamp posts as though they could offer safety. Winston wanted to get out of the chaos, so he set course for his flat. He was not worried about the helicopters, there was nothing to fear. The telescreen had said that the war had been won, therefore the war had been won. Big Brother tells only the truth. Big brother is the truth.

Halfway home, he heard another rocket bomb from the north. Two within the hour was peculiar. His mind wasn’t hung up on the observation for long and soon he reached his street. 

As he neared the stairs to his flat, a force shook through his bones and knocked him down. His ears were ringing in a high pitched squeal and he was face down staring at cobblestone. He tried to roll over but could feel that his right side was being pinned down. He could smell smoke and something sour.

A new understanding of War is Peace occurred to Winston as he bled out on the street. The war had arrived at his doorstep, and it laid him to rest in peace.


End file.
